To Mr. L-----
The sun that gilds the western sky
And makes the orient red,
Whose gladsome rays delight the eye
And cheer the lonely shade,
Withdraws his vegetative heat,
To southern climes retires;
While absent, we supply his seat
With gross, material fires.
'Tis new-year's morn; each rustic swain
Ambrosial cordials take;
And round the fire the festive train
A semi-circle make:
While clouds ascend, of sable smoke,
From pipes of ebon hue,
With inharmonick song and joke
They pass the morning through.
You tell me this is solitude,
This Contemplation's seat;
Ah no! the most impervious wood
Affords me no retreat.
But let me recollect: 'tis said,
When Orpheus tun'd his lyre
The Fauns and Satyrs left the shade,
Warm'd by celestial fire.
His vocal lays and lyra made
Inanimated marble weep;
Swift-footed Time then paus'd, 'tis said,
And sea-born monsters left the deep:
Impatient trees, to hear his strain
Rent from the ground their roots?---
Such is my fate, as his was then,
Surrounded here---by brutes.